We Can Pretend (but that won't make it true)
by DobbyLovesSocks
Summary: She finds solace in a quiet little Ravenclaw with dreams that are far too big and a reality far too small. But really, she thinks that's what she loves about her. Loves, loves, loves. She says the word over and over until she almost believes that it's true. /For Paula


_My first May fic for the GGE- For Paula, using a line that SHE MADE UP, and desperately wanted written into a fic: "I'm tired of trying to pretend that I don't know where your lips end."_

_Paula, I'm going to make this shortish and sweetish. Sound good? You always know how to make me laugh in every situation, and I do start giggling out loud in the middle of my kitchen because of you. Our minds can work in such similar ways it's scary, and you know me really well. Over the months I've known you, you've introduced me to so much amazingness such as Andrea Gibson and TFiOS and I am so grateful for that I can't even say. :D Have some HannahLuna, my dear. I hope you enjoy!_

_Thank you to Kelly for reading over the ending for me. :)_

_Word count: 1449_

* * *

Her eyes flutter open for a moment, before closing once again. She knows she has it pretty lucky, knows that dozens of people have it worse. But that's the thing. Millions of people have it worse, but it doesn't matter what they have; she's Hannah Abbott and she's used to having everything going well and now it's all crumbling and she doesn't know what to think.

So she finds solace in a quiet little Ravenclaw with dreams that are far too big and a reality far too small. But really, she thinks that's what she loves about her.

_Loves, loves, loves._

She says the word over and over until she almost believes that it's true.

* * *

She lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, _friends_ written in golden ink weaving all around. But looking up hurts, because Neville's face is round and happy, holding no trace of a bruise or a scrape. And Hermione still looks young and just a little bit haughty, and Harry and Ron wear their old sheepish grins.

_That's not how it is anymore._

Hannah doesn't have a place on Luna's ceiling, but it's okay, because whenever Luna isn't looking up, Hannah's is the only face she sees. When Hannah can't sleep and is lying awake, Luna whispers in her ear, telling tales of wishes and hope and happiness, hoping that if she she repeats the words enough, Hannah will finally start to believe again.

* * *

Hannah isn't sure when she stopped being _Hannah,_ and became simply one half of _HannahandLuna._ Her once bright eyes are dim, and her cheeks are hollow and pale. She's lost the joy that used to be a part of her, just as much a part of her as her round cheeks and blonde pigtails.

(After the war, she finally started wearing her hair down. After all, hadn't everything gone the same way? Down, down down.)

Luna, though, seems perfectly the same. Perfectly _insane, _but still sweet and kind and gentle, and Hannah clings to her like the drowning man clings to shore. Luna's happiness may seem impossible right now, but it's warm and familiar and something she appreciates. And after a while, the pats and stories and late night conversations had become something more, had become hugs and confessions and late night kisses. Hannah finds it a little bit scary how quickly she adapts to this, how she begins to _need_ Luna, need her touch and her voice to sleep at night.

She isn't quite sure why Luna puts up with her and her despair, but night after night Luna will murmur in her ear whatever she most wants to be told until she falls into a nightmarish sleep until morning. Sometimes she'll wake up in the middle of the night, tears falling down her cheeks, shaking Luna awake and kissing her with the same urgency, needing to know that someone is there, someone will listen. Always, Luna kisses her back, and sometimes they'll stay like that for minutes until Hannah's tears have soaked into Luna's skin and they both taste salt on their lips.

Hannah tries to convince herself that she loves Luna, really truly loves her, like her mum and dad love each other and her grandpa and grandpa do. Only the tiniest corner of her mind is willing to admit to herself that however intimate these gestures may seem, hopelessness is the only thing driving her. Each kiss is only to remind herself that someone is there, each hug, to know that somebody still cares. Every day, she she tries to force herself to believe that every new story Luna tells is magnificent, every kiss they have is somehow different from all the ones before it.

She wonders if Luna knows what's going on inside her head.

* * *

If there's one thing you can say for Luna, it's that she is patient. Night after night she sits by Hannah's side and comforts her, and when shaken awake in the dead of night, her lips always find her way to Hannah's before a single complaint can escape them.

She also isn't one to label love. She has never told Hannah she loves her, simply because she hasn't really thought about it. She cares about Hannah, and she makes this known, but love is a maze she knows she will encounter in time, and, for the time being, she'll let things go as they do.

After almost a month, Hannah picks up her paintbrush again. And once she does, she scarcely puts it down. Within days, the living room is covered in crumpled up sketches and paint covered canvases bearing blood and beauty and things that neither of them quite understand.

For hours, one day, Hannah doesn't speak. Luna watches as she holds the brush loosely in her hand and dips it into the paint, again and again into the puddle of crimson. When she finishes, she doesn't say a word. Her clothes are splattered with colour and the canvas is almost completely covered. Suddely, Hannah opens her mouth and lets out a scream. She screams and screams and throws the brush across the room, staining the white leather chair as her voice gets higher and higher in pitch until it completely breaks.

And so does she.

Tears fall from her eyes and cascade down her cheeks as she yells, "I CAN'T DO IT, LUNA. I CAN'T. I CAN'T. _I CAN'T!"_

Luna walks over to her, and calmly puts her arms around Hannah. After a few minutes, once Hannah's wailing has softened to quiet whimpers, Luna gently kisses her. When Hannah draws back after a moment, Luna looks at her.

"It's the picture." It isn't a question; it's a statement. Hannah nods, sniffling. The picture is a mass of dark shadows and figures, the only colour in it, the red of blood. The battle from her eyes.

"I can't paint anymore," she whispers. "I paint my nightmares, and sometimes I can barely tell the difference anymore." Luna opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Hannah kisses her again, holding her tightly, pressing her body to hers. She only pauses for one moment to mumble one word.

_"Stay."_

* * *

The survivors often pay a higher toll than the dead, Hannah reflects. They're the ones who have to miss the dead, who have to remember every horrible act they committed, every scene they laid eyes on. But slowly, she feels herself getting pieced back together. And slowly, she finds herself needing Luna less and less, and simply going along with it because it's _supposed _to feel right.

So when Luna leans down to kiss her goodnight like she has every day since the battle ended, Hannah turns away.

"No?" Luna asks curiously. "Did I do something wrong?" Hannah shakes her head, sighing.

"No, of course you didn't, Luna. I..." She pauses, trying to think of the right words. "I'm... I tired of trying to pretend that I don't know where your lips end." Luna looks at her in confusion, her eyes even wider than usual.

"How do I... Look. Luna, you're wonderful. You're sweet and kind and I can't tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done. But it's just... I keep trying to believe that I love you like _that,_ and that I still enjoy everything we do. And I _do_ enjoy it, just not the way I used to. I try to delude myself into thinking that there are things I don't know about you, thinking that each kiss is somehow different from the last. But it isn't. And I should have told you this a long time ago, but I was too scared to admit that I just needed you for comfort. Not for love or even friendship. I just needed comfort. I know where your lips end, Luna. No matter what I try and convince myself, I know that none of this is going to be new, and... I'm okay, now. I don't need someone anymore."

Luna watches her for a moment, her blonde hair partially shielding her face. Nodding slightly, she kisses Hannah on the cheek one last time.

"Sometimes love doesn't last forever," she says after a long pause. "But it can still be love. And maybe you didn't love me from the start, but don't think that simply because something ends that it never began."

She moves out of the house that night. There is no bad blood, no anger or hurt. And even though Hannah gets older and marries and this love lasts 'til death, she never forgets Luna. After all, it not only began what was almost love, but it also began Hannah's life again. And she's grateful. Always grateful.


End file.
